


A Quiet Devotion (David Copperfield/Agnes Wickfield drabbles)

by thebloodycountess



Category: David Copperfield - Charles Dickens
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-11
Updated: 2017-03-14
Packaged: 2018-10-02 21:14:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10227509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebloodycountess/pseuds/thebloodycountess
Summary: David Copperfield and Agnes Wickfield love each other, declare their devotion for each other, and stumble towards the truth of their love for each other.All with the help of some of the best and the worst people they know.





	1. A Quiet Devotion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He wants to tell her just how much he loves her – not at all the love of a brother for a sister, but the love of a man for a woman. It is a quiet agony he suffers, being so near the woman who has taught him how to live and yet being unable to hold her in his arms and kiss her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is the first time I've ever published fics about Dickens' characters. I've toyed with ideas several times in the past but never thought of taking the chance and posting them online. Thus, they remained scribbles in notebooks that I lost over the years. I've always loved David Copperfield since I was a kid, probably because it was the first Dickens book I chose to read. And Agnes Wickfield became my favorite character immediately, second only to Betsey Trotwood. Both characters remind me of my own mother — who is nurturing and gentle but also has a sharp wit about her and an honesty that has shaped me. There will be a couple of AU drabbles, here and there, I hope the purists don't come after me with pitchforks. XD I promise you, I'll do my best! :)

David realizes that his heart is not disciplined yet when he catches a gentleman conversing with Agnes at the foot of the grand old staircase. By his side is a little girl whose admiring gaze is fixed on the dear Angel of his life and of his heart. The man is only slightly older than he, and he has the little girl's hand clasped protectively in his.

"Odette sings beautifully, Mr. Collins," Agnes says in such a clear voice, eliciting a blush from the little girl. "You must be so proud." She has never been one to give false praise and it is her honest, goodhearted nature that has made her a treasure to many — especially to his aunt, who is not at all easily impressed.

Mr. Collins beams and the expression on his face is — to David's mind — the same besotted one that Traddles has when he waxes poetic about Sophy, his dearest girl in the world. Or, it may be just that way to him because David truly understands how blessed the world is to have Agnes Wickfield living in it.

"I have you to thank for my Odette's newfound confidence, Miss Wickfield. She is much improved since last year when we first arrived in Canterbury." His gaze on Agnes is so earnest and hopeful, as if he had never seen a more beatific countenance in his life and must fall to his knees before her.

It takes a great deal of effort on David's part to give them a cordial nod as father and daughter pass him by in the foyer, after they bid Agnes farewell.

Agnes greets him with her usual sweet smile and a warm embrace, which he relishes, even as she pulls away too soon.

"Have you a new chapter of your story to read to me, Trotwood?" she asks, as they walk up the staircase to the familiar drawing room where she would play the piano for her father. "I should like to hear all about the shipwrecked sailor and if he has survived in the jungle or not."

"You will know soon enough, dearest Sister. There are other characters I must introduce you to."

When she laughs, the sound of it is so musical that David feels his resolve waver. For one brief moment, he contemplates telling her that in his heart, she has long ceased to be his sister and friend, and that her quiet beauty pervades his every dream now. He wants to tell her just how much he loves her — not at all the love of a brother for a sister, but the love of a man for a woman. He aches to tell her — now, if she will let him — that unworthy of her love as he is, it would kill him if they were ever to be parted. It is a quiet agony he suffers, being so near the woman who has taught him how to live and yet being unable to hold her in his arms and kiss her. He knows he must accept that if there had ever been a time when she nurtured a love for him, that he had all too quickly cast it selfishly aside and must now pay the price for such a transgression. But seeing another man gaze lovingly at her so soon after he made this promise to honor and cherish her from his removed place still hurts far more than David realizes.

Her angel-face glows in the light of the setting sun — yet another image of her that he shall take with him into his dreams. She tells him of the progress her little charges have made, of how happy she is that she has another purpose apart from the filial duty to her father that has defined her young life.

When she speaks of Odette and her father, Mr. Collins, she becomes subdued; and on her face is the same quiet, sad smile that David saw that day he spoke to her again after his three-year sojourn. She tells him that Mr. Collins is a widower, and that he has no one in the world but his little daughter now.

David wonders if this is the man Agnes has bestowed her affections upon. He wants to ask her, but he remembers how uneasy she was when he first attempted to lead her to revealing who it was that had her heart.

"It relieves me to see Odette in better spirits. She lost her dear mother only months before they came to Canterbury," she says. "I sometimes think I see myself in her, Trotwood. She is so devoted to her father and strives to ensure he is happy."

Ah, Agnes! Could she ever be anything other than loving and good?

As he drinks in every word she says, allowing himself to be comforted by her serene presence and gentle voice, he thinks of a distant day when he, as an old man, can tell her —

" — I shall always love you and be devoted to you, Agnes."

Her hand is upon his, her touch warming him to his very bones, and he sees unshed tears in her eyes as she assures him that she will always love her dear brother as well.

If only she had a clue as to the state of his heart — unraveling in its hopes each time he visits her.

 _"Blind, blind, blind!"_ he can hear his aunt say. And David knows it to be the truth.


	2. I and Love and You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dora — bless her soul — gives her a sad, knowing smile and looks more woman than child in that moment. “Dearest Agnes...even you?” She pats her hand softly, and leans her head against Agnes’ shoulder, sighing when Agnes tightens her embrace in response. “My silly boy doesn’t realize how lucky he is that you love him so.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wrote this with “9 Crimes” by Damien Rice looping. Title taken from the song with the same title by The Avett Brothers.

There is an awful, overwhelming dread that gathers in the pit of her stomach as the carriage makes haste towards Trotwood’s cottage. Agnes is aware of Dora’s gradually fading strength, but even she cannot believe such a sweet, happy soul could —

“You must not think that!”’ she scolds herself harshly, even as her knuckles have turned white from gripping her skirts. “She will live!”

And yet, a smaller voice — sad, quiet, and sounding so much like her own — says _‘No, it is not to be so’_.

Outside the carriage, the buildings and streets go by her in a blur of grays and browns, and the clomping of the horses’ hooves on the cobblestone seems to keep in time with the pounding of her heart.

Agnes allows herself a sob then, her hand flying to her mouth to muffle the sound even if it had not even been loud enough for the driver to hear. She cannot help but think of her dear brother now, suffering in silence, grieving as his lovely child-wife lives out the last days of her short life. She thinks of Dora happily laughing through her pain, of the letters she received from her where Dora confided to her that she wished they had been friends long ago because ‘she would have been a much cleverer girl.’

She has one of Dora’s letters with her (apart from the short one Trotwood wrote to her about Dora’s request), and she reads it over and over again, her tears falling on the paper and blotting the ink. How horribly she felt for the dear girl, only wanting to be more than what she was for Trotwood! Agnes cannot fault her for that; because in her own way, she had done the same thing — always trying in earnest to be more than what she was, and offering more than what she could if only he would notice the depth of her love for him.

It had been a sharp, searing pain to the heart when Trotwood first wrote about her and how he had fallen in love with this beautiful creature full of sunlight. She wanted to hate this unknown girl for taking away another piece of her life, but found she could not without loathing herself more; for Trotwood was no more hers than he had been Miss Shepherd’s, the eldest Miss Larkins', or even Little Em’ly’s.

So, when Agnes met the object of her brother’s affections, she had exerted all effort to be cordial, finding her misgivings easily laid to rest when she understood Dora Spenlow to have no other motive than to love Trotwood in the best way she knew how. Even through the heartbreak she endured over their marriage, she found Dora to be a most endearing girl, her childlike nature easily stirring Agnes’ own nurturing spirit, and she promised she would be a faithful correspondent to the woman who had Trotwood’s love.

The carriage stops, Agnes blindly reaches for the hand offered to her as she alights from inside. She has dried her tears, and as she raises her head, the carriage driver has to give pause as he stares at a face so noble and gentle that he might as well have been staring at one of those angel statues in church.

Miss Betsey is the first to greet her at the gate, and while Dora is smiling and happily crying that her dear, dear Agnes has come just in time, she notices the dark shadow that crosses Trotwood’s face. He knows — that much she can see — but he cannot bear to accept it.

The day passes by too quickly, and Agnes tries to keep herself occupied by making sure Dora is comfortable, that there are always warm towels and tea at hand, and her beautiful hair is combed. She even picks out flowers from the garden to brighten the rooms all while struggling to maintain her congeniality, as she cannot bear to have Dora feel the same sadness that hangs in the very air. The little blossom thanks her in her sweet voice, and praises her for being oh, so clever; Agnes kisses her hand and softly shakes her head, saying that Dora is ever so gracious and pure before sitting down again to her vigil over the dear beauty.

 

* * *

 

It is night now, and even the slightest sound is magnified in the silence that has descended on the house. Agnes can feel it; Death is here, waiting for the moment when it must steal Dora away. She has tried to read, but it has been three hours since she had begun reading the third chapter of the book. Jip has kept to himself, curling up at Miss Betsey’s feet, while Miss Betsey struggles with knitting a shawl — or it would have been a shawl if not for the fact that she has had more trouble unraveling the yarn than actually beginning her project.

Trotwood soon enters the parlor, his expression one of profound sorrow. He softly tells her that Dora has asked to see her.

“Quite alone, she said,” states he. Agnes nods, gently touching his arm before she goes upstairs.

Dora holds out her arms to her as soon as she closes the door behind her, and Agnes obliges her in sitting by her side.

“Oh, dearest Agnes!” she says in a soft whisper, “I am so happy you are here. Happy and quite relieved.”

“I am glad to know that, Dora,” Agnes replies, caressing the golden locks gently as she rocks Dora in her arms.

She hears a shaky exhale of breath, surprised that it has come from her as her eyes fill with tears. Dora feels so small in her arms, so fragile, and Agnes is afraid.

“Agnes? Is everything well now with you? Is that ghastly clerk no longer seeking to harm you? Aunt told me all of what happened, but I want to hear it from you. Is everything well now?”

She shakes her head, even as it surprises her that Dora is asking about whether Uriah Heep’s machinations would prevail or not, as if Agnes being subjected to such evil was inexcusable. “He will harm no one. It is over, Sweetling; all is well.”

Dora’s entire body sags with relief at that. “That is quite good, then. Doady would have been quite distressed if you had married such a horrid man.” She struggles to look up at Agnes, her eyes bright. “I do feel so silly now for having been so terrified of you, for you are so easy to love.”

Her sweet face becomes somber for a moment and then, as just as quickly, the shadow passes and she smiles. “I have a request to make, Agnes. Will you listen to me? Will you indulge my foolishness?”

If she had any power to speak, she would, but Agnes cannot so she nods slowly.

“If you could — and I trust that you will — take care of Doady like you always have? I cannot be trusted with this task for I am such a silly goose.”

Agnes gasps as the enormity of the request dawns upon her, and her throat burns from the pain of suppressing her grief. “Oh Dora, that is not true! Do not speak so! You will be well yet!”

Dora — bless her soul — gives her a sad, knowing smile and looks more woman than child in that moment. “Dearest Agnes...even you?” She pats her hand softly, and leans her head against Agnes’ shoulder, sighing when Agnes tightens her embrace in response. “My silly boy doesn’t realize how blessed he is that you love him so.”

She falls silent, struggling now to breathe, and then she finds her voice again. “Now, do not feel remorse, for I will have none other than you to love Doady and marry him. And you must be happy and think of me even when I am gone.”

“Marry?” Agnes half-chokes, half-sobs. “Dora! Forgive me! I did not mean —”

“I am sure,” Dora continues in a blithe tone, her eyes slowly drooping, tired as she is now, “that you will both be deliriously happy. For Doady has made me quite the happiest girl, and he will do the same for you. You deserve no less because he is right, Agnes: you are an Angel.”

Her little mouth opens in a yawn and in the softest whisper — for she is now quite tired and wants to sleep — asks Agnes to hold her to her heart and sing her a lullaby.

It may have been hours, it may have only been minutes — Agnes knows not how much time has passed since — but the warmth fades from Dora. Her face is tranquil as if she has only gone into dreams, and there is a smile on her lips. The candlelight flickers on her skin and Agnes imagines that this lovely girl who relied so much on her must be homeward bound to God's Heaven now.

She sits by the bed, making sure that not a strand of hair is out of place on the pillow where the dear girl lays, and she weeps softly, pressing a small, thin hand to her breast. By and by, she gathers her wits about her, clumsily dashing her hand across her cheeks to wipe away her tears. She then presses one last kiss to Dora's forehead, and prepares to go downstairs.

His face is slack with grief and anguish when their gazes meet, slowly blurring before her as her tears fall fast, her trembling hand raised to point upwards.

_‘Oh, Trotwood. I am sorry.’_


End file.
